e to think of nothing
but what was under one's hand, it seemed to me that the fight must be going
against us, for surely, if things went on so much longer, there would be
none of our men left.

Then with a grinding crash, and a recoil that sent our broken men in
tumbled heaps, the two ships grappled, and above our gasps and groans we
heard the yells and cheers of the boarding parties and their repellers, and
presently from among the broken men brought down to us, a rough voice,
which still sounded homely to my ears, groaned--

"Oh,--you-- ---- Johnnies! One more swig o' rum an' I'd go easy," and he
groaned dolorously.

I mixed a pannikin of rum and water and placed it to his lips. He drank
greedily, looked up at me with wide-staring eyes, gasped, "Well ----! my
God!"--and died.

Captain Duchatel, as I heard afterwards, and as we ourselves might then
judge by the results that came down to us, made a gallant fight of it. And
that is no less than I would have looked for from him. He was a brave man,
and his treatment of myself might have been very much worse than it had
been. But he was overmatched, and suffered too, when the time of crisis
came, from the lack of that severe discipline which made our English ships
of war less comfortable to live in but more effective when the time for
fighting came. I had often wondered how all the miscellaneous gear which
crowded our 'tween decks would be got rid of in case of a fight, or, if not
got rid of, how they could possibly handle their guns properly. I have
since been told that what I saw on the _Josephine_ was common elsewhere in
the French ships of war, and often told sorely against them in a fight.

But in such matters Captain Duchatel only did as others did, and the fault
lay with the system rather than with the man. For myself I hold his name in
highest gratitude and reverence, for he crowned his good treatment of me by
one most kindly and thoughtful act at the supremest moment of his life.

I was soaked in other men's blood from head to foot, and looked and felt
like a man in a slaughterhouse. I was drawing into a corner, as decently as
I could, the mangled remnants of a man who had died as they laid him down.
I straightened my stiff back for a second and stood with my hands on my
hips, and at that moment Captain Duchatel came running down the stairway,
with a face like stone and a pistol in his hand.

He glanced at me. I saluted. He knew me through my stains.

"Sau